


When the Day Met the Night

by tricerasaurus



Series: Hotel AU [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged up characters, College AU, Googly Eyes, M/M, Underage Drinking, artstudent!akaashi, buff bokuto, crushing akaashi, hair down bokuto, hotel au, if you hail from the US, im sorry my owl king, mother hen kuroo, prehotel AU actually, sad bokuto, trigger:pre-established family death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7879189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricerasaurus/pseuds/tricerasaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bokuto steeled himself, adjusted the popped collar of the leather jacket he’d worn, still cold to the touch from the crisp end-of-fall air, and maneuvered through the raised drawing tables to have a conversation that would make the top three conversations he’d ever had, right behind the one time he’d got really high and talked to Kuroo’s goldfish for a couple hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take A Chance on Me

**Author's Note:**

> I FINALLY WROTE THIS! As soon as I started the larger DaiSuga portion of this universe I had the idea for this fic in my head BECAUSE I LOVE BOKUAKAA HOLY SHIT (or as my sister calls it, Bokaashi). Thank you to Lachesis for betaing and commenting and fixing! I hope you guys seriously enjoy this small enstallment!
> 
> Also this fic is wholly inspired by When the Day Met the Night by Panic! At the Disco (except for the whole summer thing, this fic takes place at the end of autumn.)
> 
> Also each chapter title is going to be a song title! This one is Take A Chance On Me by ABBA. (I listened to a lot of music while writing this)

Bokuto was bored. After three rounds around the tiny two bedroom apartment, he had applied googly eyes to a majority of his and Kuroo’s shared kitchen appliances, and to every single one of Kuroo’s possessions. He had finished a long list of chores (finished being a general term, he mostly just contemplated the list and decided he wasn’t bored enough to resort to housework). Instead he was now in the middle of a very intense staring contest with the toaster, from his perch atop the back of the couch. If he had known skipping class was this boring he would’ve never started in the first place. But Bokuto wasn’t one to kick habits, so here he was, two months into his second year of college and he could count the number of times he had actually been to class on one hand. But they had said at the beginning of the year to only attend if you wanted to learn, and who the hell  _ wants  _ to learn, really? Thats like wanting to get a lobotomy. Or crabs. 

The toaster eventually admitted defeat so Bokuto flipped on Netflix and picked out his favorite movie, Hoot, about a group of kids trying to save the habitat of some very small and very cute owls. He watched it upside down to make it more interesting, the additional factor of seeing how long he could stand the blood rushing to his head giving the story new meaning; the kids were now saving  _ sky  _ owls instead of ground owls. But not even that could stop the all-consuming wave of complete and utter boredom from crashing over him once more. He groaned at his googly-eye remote and it silently stood by him in solidarity. Only one thing could solve this. He fished his phone out of its prison in between the couch cushions and opened up one of the conversations. He righted himself on the couch and snapped a quick picture of the table lamp, two large, round eyes placed perfectly side-by-side on its shade. By the time the response came in, he had resorted to blasting Wannabe by the Spice Girls on repeat on Kuroo’s very new, very expensive speaker system. He was singing the chorus to the loser toaster when he heard his phone ding. He placed the wooden spoon he had been belting into on the counter next to him, replacing its spot in his hands with the phone.

>>>> From: Kurbro 

God damn it. I should’ve seen this coming when I got you those fucking googly monstrosities for your birthday.

Bokuto responded by sending a picture of the subwoofer of the speakers, it looked very surprised with Bokuto’s new addition to it. His phone dinged almost immediately after sending it.

>>>>From: Kurbro

NOT MY SPEAKER SYSTEM. You’re a fucking menace.

Bokuto smiled down at his phone, he couldn’t wait until Kuroo saw the rest of the apartment.

>>>>To: Kurbro

I got bored :ppp

>>>>From: Kurbro

Why the hell aren’t you in class?

>>>>To: Kurbro

I don’t see how that would solve the boredom problem.

Where you at right now, anyway?

>>>>From: Kurbro

At least my precious speakers would be safe from you.

Some bull gen. ed. painting class. Lots of artsy fartsy freshmen.

Bokuto got an idea. After all, he needed to get out of the apartment and Kuroo needed someone to berate him endlessly on whatever piece of shit finger painting he was working on.

>>>> To: Kurro

Let me bother you.

>>>>No.

>>>>Whyyyyyyy? You said I needed to go to class

>>>>Yeah, your class shitface.

>>>>Please.

>>>>No.

>>>>Please.

Kuroo didn’t answer back within the next minute so Bokuto sent another picture of the speaker console, mini eyes placed over every button. The next text contained the building and room number of Kuroo’s class. Bokuto whooped in excitement, grabbed his favorite jacket and was on his way.

He was not disappointed when he arrived. The teacher was a very flighty woman who looked to be in her early sixties and she greeted Bokuto like he belonged there. Which she probably thought he did, if those coke bottle glasses had anything to say about it. He quickly spotted Kuroo at a long line of artist tables in the back. He bounded over very ready to see whatever horribly wonderful painting his best friend was working on. He plopped in an empty seat next to Kuroo and was instantly disappointed.

“It’s not bad.”

Kuroo flicked his cat-like gaze over to Bokuto before returning it to the painting of a person with stick straight, grown out, bottle blonde hair, “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Bokuto raised his eyebrows, “Kuroo, please. I grew up with you, I basically  _ lived _ with you for past 4 years. We both know you can’t even draw a stick figure for the life of you.”

Kuroo stabbed at the painting with the closest brush a couple more times, adding some weird green color that definitely didn’t belong there, “The teacher said if you draw something you love it’s easier.”

Bokuto stuck his lower lip out in a pout, “And you chose Kenma over me?”

“I would choose anything over you.”

“You love me.”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

Bokuto glanced down at his phone just to double check, “Oh, would you look at that, it’s Tuesday!”

Bokuto watched Kuroo put down an abused paint brush, replacing it with a thinner one, caked in paint from its last use. He was always very intrigued by the creative process, even though he had no talent himself, but Kuroo’s seemed less like a process and favored the trainwreck side of things. Kuroo sighed, “No shit. Well, I guess I have to love you today.”

Bokuto nodded vehemently, “Yes you do, so please pay attention to me.”

Kuroo took a sip of whatever health tea he had in his portable mug, “Alright, go.”

This was Kuroo’s way of giving Bokuto the a-okay to blabber long strings of nonsense at him, ranging from deep philosophical questions, like what if toasters were actually sentient, to rather mundane things like the events of the day (which also consisted of toasters today). So he started in on his usual spiel, recounting the tale of his trek to Kuroo’s art class (he got lost three times and saw a skateboarder completely wipe out, face directly to pavement). Kuroo nodded his head and reacted properly whenever Bokuto paused long enough for him to respond. He had just gotten to explaining his feelings on smelly cheeses when Kuroo placed his paintbrush in a cup of dirty water and turned to fully face him. Bokuto prepared himself for whatever was about to come, Kuroo rarely acknowledged Bokuto directly during one of his one-sided conversations.

“Hey, Bo,” Bokuto obediently fell silent, ready to hear whatever Kuroo had to say, “When’s the last time you went to class?”

Bokuto started picking at some invisible lint on his jacket, “Meh, I don’t really remember.”

“Bokuto, you’re going to flunk out,” He hated when Kuroo tried to get serious with him. It happened far too often recently.

He decided to interrupt him before it went too far, “Kuroo, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter, I don’t care.”

“Bokuto, you-”

“I’m fine Kuroo,” Bokuto looked around the room, hoping for an escape from Kuroo’s mother henning. He was saved when he noticed a rather large painting in the middle of the room. The canvas was an array of colors that all collided in the middle to form a anatomically correct (or at least it looked that way) musculature of a man’s back. His head was turned as if the subject were looking back at the viewer, but he had no face. Only layers of muted color like the painter that were raised, like the painter couldn’t decide what to put there and kept painting over it.

Bokuto’s eyes moved from the organized chaos of the painting to the artist. His workplace was clean on a clinical level, every brush was placed carefully in an assembly line and the paints on his pallet followed the color wheel to a tee. Even his person was immaculate, he wore a light dark blue hoodie zipped halfway up over a simple white t-shirt and relaxed denim jeans. He had a pair of wire-frame leopard print reading glasses hanging from a glasses chain that made him look sophisticated and probably would’ve made anyone else look like Bokuto’s second grade librarian. Who was a 70-year-old ex-smoker. The only thing that seemed out of place were the short curly black locks on his head, a bed head far more elegant than anything Kuroo could ever hope to achieve. When he reached up to scratch at his cheek with the clean end of some weird metal contraption he was using, the sleeve of his jacket rode up, revealing a old worn leather watch that had seen much better days.

Bokuto wondered what his eyes looked like. Who was he? What did he like to do other than create masterpieces? Would he marry Bokuto, if asked nicely? If he said pretty please? He became so enamored just watching this person worry over a mostly finished work that he completely missed most of the lecture Kuroo had started in on.

Kuroo, who was in the same class as this guy.

Kuroo who  _ probably _ , if he was being his usual Kuroo self, knew his name.

“Hey Kuroo?”

Kuroo sighed, “Yes, Bo?”

“Who is that guy?” Bokuto tilted his head in his direction in a not-so-subtle attempt to keep his interest covert.

Kuroo furrowed his eyebrows and followed Bokuto’s line of sight, “Him?” Kuroo pointed with his brush, flicking paint at the unfortunate person between him and the mysterious artist. Bokuto nodded.

“I’m not actually sure,” what use was a yenta as a friend if they didn’t snoop into the proper people’s lives, “I missed the first day of introductions and he’s seemed busy so I didn’t want to interrupt him.”

“Is he shy or something?”

“No, he seems friendly enough, a little sassy even, he’s just very serious about his work so I’m a little afraid to interrupt him.”

Bokuto had no such fear, “I’m gonna go talk to him,” Kuroo waved him off and went back to working, probably happy he was at least showing initiative in something. 

Bokuto steeled himself, adjusted the popped collar of the leather jacket he’d worn, still cold to the touch from the crisp end-of-fall air, and maneuvered through the raised drawing tables to have a conversation that would make the top three conversations he’d ever had, right behind the one time he’d got really high and talked to Kuroo’s goldfish for a couple hours.

*****

He just couldn’t get it right. Akaashi sighed and scraped another generous amount of yellow paint onto his painting spatula to spread over the undeveloped face he was working on. He knew what he wanted. He saw it right behind his eyes, in the back of his mind but no matter how hard he tried it wouldn’t come out how he wanted. He couldn’t get the commanding presence of his eyes right, or the curve of a jaw. It was only a blurry image in his mind, not enough to create a coherent picture to work off of. All he knew was he was doing it wrong.

“At first I thought I was looking at a Monet, but you are so much more beautiful up close.”

Maybe if he tried a sharper angle on the bottom jaw. Or larger eyes? He thought it might’ve made him look too feminine but it was worth a shot…

“Not that one? How about…”

Akaashi gave another long suffering sigh, no matter what, if he let his mind wander he just kept coming back to the same color.

“Okay I give up. There are no good art-related pick up lines.”

_ You should let me pin you up against a wall because you’re a masterpiece. _ His brain itched to escape from the same monotonous task he’d been slaving over all day, but there was something just on the edge. He couldn’t give up yet.

“So I’m just going to go ahead and keep talking because I like your art and I like you. My name’s Bokuto Koutarou. What’s yours?”

He turned to face whoever was interrupting his attempt at a creative process, this “Bokuto”. And there it was. The presence. He had crazy grey-and-white hair spiked up in two horns that made him look vaguely owlish. Bokuto’s eyes followed suit, large like an owl’s and framed by long, dark lashes, they were the same golden mustard yellow he’d been mixing on his pallets for days on end. The rest of his face was neither classically beautiful or unpleasing to the eye. He had a strong jaw, but a sharp chin. His mouth was large and his lips were a shade of pink Akaashi didn’t know the name for. He had he kind of face Akaashi could paint for months and still find new things about it everyday. His entire being screamed, ‘pay attention to me, I’m larger than life.’ His shirt was a muted sky blue underneath a grey leather jacket so dark he almost mistook it for black. His pants left little to the imagination and told Akaashi there was no way in hell this man didn’t work out (which reminded him how long it had been since he’d had a chance to ‘blow off steam’ as it were). He was tall and long but with a more than significant amount of muscle. Akaashi wanted to undress him right then and there, for artistic purposes, of course. He was strong, outgoing, had a happy, carefree glow about him, but there was something else. Just for a moment, when Akaashi finally lifted his head from the canvas, catching Bokuto off guard, he’d seen a deep sadness behind the kind eyes. Like a boy who’d lost everything.

In an instant it was gone and replaced with a playful smile and an energy that was almost infectious, “Your eyes are green.”

Akaashi raised an eyebrow, “Are they?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto leaned in closer, Akaashi let him, “Or blue. I can’t really tell. They’re like, dark grey. But like a colorful grey, you know?”

“Yeah I know.”

“Do you also know you’re a pretty dang talented artist?”

Akaashi scoffed and looked at his most recent work, “Thank you, but I think a talented artist would be able to figure out a simple face.”

“Well that Jackson Pollock guy took like a month per painting sometimes and he just splattered some paint on a canvas and called it a day. Or a month, I guess. Yours is like a masterpiece.”

Akaashi felt his face heat up, and heard the art nerd in him shudder at Bokuto’s description of Pollock’s works, “Thank you, Bokuto-san, but you’d better not let Jackson hear you say that.”

Bokuto’s eyes went wider, “You mean he’s still  _ alive _ ?”

“No, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto entire image drooped, even his hair looked crestfallen, “Oh, that’s a little disappointing. Are there any artists still alive today?” It was almost cute how quickly Bokuto’s moods seemed to change. One moment he was the sun and the next he looked like a puppy abandoned in the middle of the road, “Besides you, of course.”

Bokuto wiped off his knife and let it down on a clean towel to think, “Gerhard Richter.”

Bokuto leaned in on the table, propping his head up on the heel of his hand, 

“What makes him so great?”

Akaashi glanced at Bokuto, observing him for a few moments before answering.  _ You remind me of his paintings _ , “He’ll paint these complex, realistic yet abstract pieces, then he covers the entire thing with a layer of oil paint and scrapes at the surface a bit, so you can only barely see the work underneath.”

Bokuto frowned, “Well that seems counter-productive.”

“Depends on what he was trying to produce.”

“And what was he trying to produce?”

“He leaves it for the viewer to decide.”

“That’s a lot of work to put on your viewer, now I’m kind of stressed out.”

“I mean you don’t  _ have  _ to look at them, Bokuto-san.”

“Well, I mean yeah but,” Bokuto cleared his throat, bringing Akaashi’s attention back to him. He was looking down at his shoes, scratching at his pants, “You like them, so I want to.”

Akaashi’s cheeks felt unnaturally warm. He busied himself with fixing an already finished portion of his piece, “Okay.”

There were a few moments of silence, barely a second really, but after nonstop chatter from Bokuto the space around him seemed a little empty without his voice. He started scraping at the layers of still wet paint over the face, carving out a texture absent-mindedly. He let a couple more pass before he actually got worried and checked to make sure Bokuto was still alive. He was. He looked away quickly but Akaashi had caught Bokuto watching him while he worked, a small smile on his lips. The caterpillars that had been lying dormant in his stomach since getting over puberty turned to fluttering butterflies. He didn’t really know how to deal with this. He didn’t  _ feel _ things. He used to, but he’d grown older, matured. How dare this beautiful owl boy come in and change his life in a matter of seconds?

The teacher called for everyone to pack up and leave. A tall dark-haired man Akaashi remembered coming in late the second day tapped Bokuto on the shoulder, “Come on Bo, I’ve got some irresponsible hotel employees to pick up and you have an apartment to de-googlefy.”

“But Kuroo, I’ve personified it! It has personality.”

“My speaker system doesn’t need a personality.”

“Okay, but the toaster stays, I’ve named him Bernadette.”

“That’s a stupid name for a toaster.”

Bokuto looked at this ‘Kuroo’ like he was missing some vital piece of information, “No it’s not,  _ Burn- _ adette, Kuroo. Get it,  _ burn _ .”

Bokuto snickered at his own terrible pun. Kuroo shook his head, “God, I hate you.”

“No you don’t, it’s Tuesday!”

“Damn it.”

Bokuto posed victoriously in his seat. He glanced over at Akaashi, the innocent bystander to this exchange, “Just give me a minute though, I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

Kuroo waved at Akaashi and ruffled Bokuto’s hair before exiting the room. Bokuto grumbled for a bit while fixing his smushed spikes. He was just so endearing, 

“Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s hands paused in his hair, “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Akaashi cocked his head, “I still don’t know your name.”

Akaashi paused, thinking back on their conversation. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t even gotten to introductions yet, “I’m Akaashi. Akaashi Keiji.”

Bokuto smiled wide, an excited glimmer in his eyes, “Akaashi Keiji. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, Bokuto-san.”

“Just Bokuto is fine,” his friend called out to him from the hallway. Bokuto got up and walked backwards out of the classroom, “I’ll be back, Akaashi.”

“Are you even in this class, just Bokuto?”

“Nope,” he left the room, popping his head back around the corner, “But I’ll be back.”

Akaashi was left with a strange tired feeling, like he’d been out in the sun for too long. And he was smiling long after Bokuto had gone and Akaashi was far away in his 300 person art history lecture. He was fifteen minutes into the class but he had no idea what the professor was saying. All he could think about was Bokuto. His face was stuck in Akaashi’s mind. However, what stood out to Akaashi after their brief meeting wasn’t Bokuto’s chatter, or his quick mood changes. The only thing he could focus on was the millisecond of true pain and desperate misery in Bokuto’s eyes.

  
He put away the textbook he was staring blankly at and pulled out his overused sketchbook. He turned to a page clear of his random scribbles and thoughts and set to work on a face he could now see clearly.


	2. Unintended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True to his word, every Tuesday and Thursday, almost exactly thirty minutes after the official start of class, Bokuto arrived at Akaashi’s 10:30 a.m. Introduction to Painting class with some amusing story or anecdote he had thought up on the walk over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AGAIN YES I AM NOT DEAD AND I HAVE NOT ABANDONED THIS! Thanks to some great motivation from some wonderful people who commented, I got myself to sit in front of my computer and churn this one out. I don't have much to say other than I do not promise exact update dates but I do promise to keep with it. THANK YOU LACHESIS I LOVE YOU please enjoy :3

True to his word, every Tuesday and Thursday, almost exactly thirty minutes after the official start of class, Bokuto arrived at Akaashi’s 10:30 a.m. Introduction to Painting class with some amusing story or anecdote he had thought up on the walk over. Every once in a while his friend, Kuroo, would stop by and entertain Bokuto while Akaashi was busy working, usually managing to slip under the teacher’s radar until a sudden outburst from Bokuto would get Kuroo sent back to his seat and Bokuto kicked out for the day. When this happened, which was more often than not, Bokuto would wait outside the door for Akaashi to walk him to his next class. Usually Akaashi would’ve minded, he liked using his short walks between classes to think out a new idea, but with Bokuto, he found he didn’t.

At first Akaashi would just listen, unable to keep up with the complexities of Bokuto’s thought process, but like with most things in his life, Akaashi found himself warming to it. He’d fill Bokuto’s few silences with questions, just to hear his voice a little longer, and even felt compelled to tell stories of his own, intrigued by how Bokuto seemed genuinely interested in his life. Even though it mainly comprised of sleep, painting and, on rare occasions, playing sudoku out of a book his father got him before Akaashi’d told him he wouldn’t be going to school for engineering, but for art. It led to a rough couple of months before Akaashi inevitably left to ‘follow his dream’ as it were, but he’d never regretted it.

He regretted it even less now that his otherwise simple and repetitive class had the bright spot of Bokuto in it. Bokuto, who was fifteen minutes late. Bokuto, who despite his appearance and overall demeanor, was the most dependable and on time person Akaashi had ever had the pleasure of meeting (people who followed any kind of schedule were hard to come by in the art world). Kuroo sat behind Akaashi, working diligently on the canvas he’d been carelessly administering large blobs of paint to since day one. Akaashi thought this was a sign, if anything was actually wrong with Bokuto, he was pretty sure Kuroo wouldn’t be this calm. He looked over the progress he’d made on his own piece. He’d finished the last one in record time, and it seemed like this one was following suit, he was three days ahead of schedule.

Akaashi cleaned up his work space, snapped the clip shut on his brush case and stood up from his rickety stool. If Bokuto wasn’t going to be there, there was really no reason for him to try and work. Without the owlish boy, he felt uninspired. Instead, for the first time in his college career, he approached another student with the sole intent of striking up a conversation.

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi moved to Kuroo’s side, catching his attention.

“What’s up, Akaashi?” he put his wet brush down on the easel (Akaashi cringed) and stepped back from a muddled painting of a guy looking down at a phone screen. Kuroo looked frustrated, and his cold highlights cast from the screen clashed with the feeling from the rest of the painting. It gave off a slightly unsettling feeling of being boxed in, and made the phone the center of attention. Apparently, this was not what Kuroo was going for. Usually, from what Akaashi had seen, Kuroo was a fine artist as long as he had a picture in front of him to copy, but Akaashi saw no references. Akaashi wondered how long Kuroo had stared at his subject to be able to paint from memory. 

Kuroo squished his brush across the canvas a few more times, leaving unsteady blobs of paint and sending bristles flying in every direction.

The artist within Akaashi started speaking before Kuroo could do anymore damage to the supplies around him, “Kuroo-san, have you considered possibly using a lighter stroke?”

Kuroo started at Akaashi’s voice, and damaged the brush further, setting it down, still wet, on his pallet, “Brilliant suggestion.” The paint brush rolled off the palette, leaving a streak of yellow through most of his paints before clattering to the ground. “The only problem is I’m an incompetent human being.”

Akaashi didn’t feel he really knew Kuroo well enough to comment on his overall competency, but he did know art, “Well attacking the canvas isn’t going to do anyone any good.” Akaashi plucked the fallen brush from the ground, noticing a marigold streak that fit right in with the other dried spots of paint that marred the floor, a memory of art students past who were either too lazy or inspired to clean. He dropped it in an old stained Ball jar of mineral spirits, “So I would suggest using a flat brush instead of a round to paint the background.”

Kuroo stared at the brush blankly, then turned his eyes to Akaashi, “There’s more than one kind of brush?”

The sigh that left Akaashi’s lips was a completely involuntary and justified reaction to his realization that the rest of this class period would have to be spent educating this poor uninformed soul. His original purpose for seeking out Kuroo was forgotten as he lost himself in the technical world of art and coached Kuroo through his color choices and guided the sweeping arcs of his brush.

Unfortunately for Akaashi, Kuroo was a quick learner and he was soon left again with nothing but his thoughts to entertain him. His thoughts which were flashes of gold and silver, too loud and bright to be worthwhile if the object of them was not there himself to give substance to the musings.

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi said, waiting for Kuroo to gesture at him to continue, “Where’s Bokuto-san?”

Kuroo’s paintbrush paused mid-blot, a look of jubilation and excitement on his face, “You noticed?”

Akaashi was slightly offended Kuroo would’ve thought he hadn’t. He prided himself on his observation skills, “Of course I noticed.”

The smile fell off Kuroo’s face, “Oh shit, I didn’t mean it as like, an insult to you or anything. It’s just.” Kuroo cleared his throat. “It’s a Bokuto thing, he gets in these moods sometimes where he doesn’t think people care about him or realize his there, which is stupid because, well, I mean you’ve met him.”

Yes, Akaashi had. And he had a hard time believing anyone would have the skills necessary to ignore Bokuto even if they wanted to, “So where is he?”

Kuroo’s lip curled up in a slight smirk, like he was privy to some sort of information Akaashi wasn’t, “He had to turn in a group project this morning, so he ended up actually going to class.”

Akaashi nodded, schooling his face into a practiced indifference, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat and seemed to sink at the same time. He felt a certain warmness knowing Bokuto wasn’t the kind of guy who would abandon his own group despite his own indifference.

The minutes ticked by even slower after that, each stroke of his brush seemed to last an eternity and he was sure he hadn’t made an inch of progress since he’d returned to his seat following his conversation with Kuroo.

He sat with his chin propped on his hand, his watch ticking away each second, mocking him with its stuttered rhythm and providing him the only proof he had that the world hadn’t just stopped, trapping him in his Bokuto-less uninspired artist hell forever. His eyes eventually drifted from his drying canvas to the white board, marked with expo marker scribbles of whatever had come to the mind of his fellow students, ranging from intricately detailed renderings of a young Frank Sinatra to a smiley face that, when looked at from the right angle, became a rather large piece of male genitalia.

A fly flittered lazily into Akaashi’s vision before landing with purpose above the right eye (or left ball) of the smiley face. He looked from it to his supplies and considered fashioning some sort of long poker stick out of his cheaper brushes to shoo it from his view. His boredom almost had the chance to tell him what a good idea that was before his teacher clapped, jolting the class to attention and rattling off a set of imminent due dates and dismissing them. Akaashi found himself cleaning up his station slower than usual, the cold walk now seeming less than bearable alone.

“Hey, hey, Akaashi if you don’t hurry up you’re gonna be late!”

Akaashi internally rolled his eyes (at himself) when the room suddenly got brighter and some sappy tune from his childhood crawled out of the repressed recesses of his mind played as he turned to see Bokuto standing in the doorway, hair askew and panting, like he’d finished a half marathon only a minute ago. Akaashi found it baffling that Bokuto still had the energy to smile.

Akaashi finished tying his brush roll, trying to glare at Bokuto while his lips defiantly tugged up in a small smile, “You’re late, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto stopped smiling and his whole body, which had been heaving, paused, “I know, I’m really really sorry, are you mad?”

Akaashi finished packing up the rest of his supplies and walked to the door, stopping for a moment by Bokuto, “I won’t be if you still walk me to class,” he said, before continuing out of the classroom, Bokuto scrambling to catch up but quickly falling into step with him. They walked down the hallway and out of the art and humanities building into the sun. Akaashi actually had to stop for a moment to close his eyes, the immediate dilation of his pupils causing him to become disoriented. He felt like a vampire when his hand instinctively reached up to cover his face. He had a very interesting urge to begin hissing.

Eventually the burn stopped and he blinked a few times, making sure he had completely adjusted to the world around him. Bokuto was standing a few steps farther up the cracked sidewalk, looking at Akaashi with a mix of concern and admiration he couldn’t quite understand, “Jeeze, when was the last time you saw the sun?”   
  


Akaashi looked at Bokuto, with his ridiculous attention-grabbing hair, blinding personality and caramel brown, borderline golden eyes and had to resist the sudden need to sneeze. He decided right then and there he would have to try getting out more, if being in the presence of the sun felt this good. But Akaashi also recognized this thought as one of the cheesiest he’s ever had and he wasn’t about to fall to the same level as his peers, who seemed to lose every ounce of sense they had the moment they became even a bit infatuated with one another.

Akaashi closed his eyes again, blocking out at least the vision of Bokuto if not the thought of him and tried to think back to the last time he’d left the art building late enough in the morning or earlier enough in the night for the sun to be out. “I think it was last Thursday, actually.” 

When Bokuto had walked him to his only class outside of the art building, and stopped them at least three times on the way to try and coax the rare black squirrels on campus into his waiting arms. Bokuto had revealed to Akaashi that he planned on overthrowing the current government by exposing these squirrels to some sort of radiation and sending them to Master Splinter to become his own personal army of fuzzy ninjas.

Akaashi himself had been born with a fear of any tiny rodents who fell from trees on the regular and had a malevolent need to drop acorns and other various nuts and legumes upon unsuspecting passerby. 

Akaashi opened his eyes again, his eyes protesting slightly when they were assaulted with the midday light. He blinked to clear away the tears.

Bokuto looked scandalized, “Akaashi, the sun is an important source of Vitamin D. How are you supposed to get Vitamin D without the sun?”

Akaashi shrugged as they continued their walk to the next building, “I’ll just eat lots of fish.”

“Fish have vitamin D?”

Akaashi nodded, his stomach growling when his mind conjured images of smoked salmon,  grilled salmon, salmon nigiri.

“But,” Bokuto sounded unsure, “Fishes are gross.”

Akaashi’s head snapped to Bokuto and the rational part of his mind told him to run very very far away, very quickly. Because nothing good could come from fraternizing with a dirty fish-hater. Akaashi calmed himself, reminding himself that not everyone had been gifted with his palate’s affinity for his water-dwelling finned friends. Deep breaths. “Milk is also a good alternative.”

“Well, milk is good!”

“I’m sure, but I’m severely lactose intolerant, so fish it is.”

Bokuto nodded, his eyes lighting up as he launched into a story of one of his friends who had a cat that loved milk but was also lactose intolerant. The friends apparently had no defenses against cats and gave the cat milk despite everyone’s warnings. They often had to evacuate the house in tears. He jumped quickly from that story to another, involving the same cat, in Bokuto’s senior year of high school when they couldn’t think of a good prank and, at the last minute, loaded the cat up with an entire carton of 2% and threw him into the vents.

Kuroo eventually caught up to them, just as the story was getting good, flanking Akaashi on his other side and whispering something conspiratorially to Bokuto over his head. Bokuto responded with a gasp and a shouted, “NO,” before he was silenced by Kuroo’s hand over his mouth.

“So, Akaashi.” Kuroo began.

Akaashi was not sure he liked where this was going, but he also wasn’t confident he’d be able to outrun Kuroo. The man’s thighs could probably kill men and/or smash watermelons.

“We’re having a game night this weekend and you should definitely stop by.” 

Bokuto gasped, pulling at Kuroo’s arm, “Bro whatthefuckwhydoyouhateme,” he whined.

Kuroo’s entire body was pulled to the side by Bokuto’s strength but his face remained locked on Akaashi’s, daring him to answer, grinning almost like he knew something Akaashi didn’t. Which Akaashi seriously doubted after the few conversations he’d had with the cat-like man.

“Thank you for the offer but I don’t think I can this weekend.”

Bokuto finally freed Kuroo from his grasp, “You really can’t?” he sounded so dejected Akaashi’s heart actually broke a little, “Shit, that blows it was gonna be so much fun with you there.”

“Hey, asshole I’m still going to be there and I’m a fucking delight.”

“You’re no Akaashi, bro,” Bokuto seemed to realize his words only after they left his mouth and he sent a panicked glance to Akaashi, his cheeks turning a nice shade of dark pink.

Akaashi thought it was the cutest thing he’d seen in months but he also fortunately had a brain-to-mouth filter and decided to keep this piece of information to himself.

Kuroo stopped dead in his tracks, mouth gaped open, “See if I make excuses for you next time you want me to get notes for you from lecture.”

“But you’ll always be my best bro forever, Akaashi and I will never have what you and I have,” Bokuto said, panicked.

Kuroo scoffed, “Maybe if you just went to class you wouldn’t have to lie to me like that.”

“If you go to class, I’ll go to game night.”

Bokuto and Kuroo stopped bickering over Akaashi for two seconds, giving him a relished moment of peace. At the same time they said, “Really?”

Akaashi gulped but nodded. Kuroo punched him in the arm, promising a bruise tomorrow and Bokuto whooped loud enough to scare some poor girl riding a bike across the street from them.

Akaashi rubbed at his arm, trying to ease the pain and Kuroo began to prattle. Akaashi almost succeeded in tuning him out before he heard his own name, “-’s number so he can make sure you’re actually in class. You know, make sure you’re holding up your end of the bargain.”

Bokuto pulled out his phone, Akaashi noticed a long crack going down the screen and considered telling Bokuto he should probably get a phone case. His eyes darted to Akaashi, the warm Bokuto blush charging across his cheeks like a few single red roses among their lighter companions, “W-would that be okay with you Akaashi? I don’t think it’s a bad idea but if you do…”

Kuroo smirked at Akaashi, “Yeah Akaashi, what do you think of that idea?”

Akaashi glared at Kuroo, vowing to never help him paint his stupid pudding-headed muse again. “I think it’s a fine idea.”

Kuroo giggled like Satan and Bokuto opened up an app on his phone, prompting Akaashi to begin reciting his number, twice when Bokuto’s finger slipped the first time and got caught on the sharp edge of his screen.

Bokuto and Kuroo spent the rest of their short walk giving Akaashi short introductions of the friends who Akaashi would be meeting that weekend, ranging from a kid their age who already had not only a five-year plan, but a 15-year one that ended with him at the head of a premier five-star hotel and acted as the resident “dad” of their friend group, to a guy who had been almost expelled twice and kicked out of three social clubs for some act that not even Bokuto and Kuroo would speak of. Akaashi wasn’t exactly sure what he had gotten himself into, but he was nearly positive he was going to live to regret it.

  
They reached Akaashi’s building and when Bokuto turned towards him to smile and wave, Akaashi pretended what he was feeling was apprehension, not excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment if you feel so inclined!


	3. I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knocked twice, quick and quiet, half of him hoping no one would hear and he could have an excuse, but the world was not so kind to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again! So fortunately this break was not as long as the previous one but I thought I would get this chapter up before something too catastrophic (like the failure of my finals or the inevitable start of my full-time summer job) happens! Also INTRODUCING THE SQUAD!!! (At least most of them, the ones I can introduce without messing this universe up too much). The chapters for this may begin to get shorter just so I can update a little more regularly because I hate that this fic just sits vacant in my works! Anyway, thank you to Lachesis, as always and I really do hope you guys enjoy!

If Akaashi received one more text of straight emojis he was meant to pontificate some meaning from as Bokuto tried to find ways to entertain himself in class, Akaashi might kill himself. Whether due to annoyance or inability to handle the idea of Bokuto sending him hearts, he was not sure, but it wouldn’t matter because he would be dead. It didn’t help that Bokuto’s constant distraction (with or without texts) was affecting his work ethic. He could no longer bring his painting to class, in fear that Kuroo might see one of them and, as the best friend he is, report to Bokuto that Akaashi was painting some exquisitely large portraits of him. It as an embarrassment Akaashi was not yet ready to face.

So Akaashi really had no choice but to read and reread Bokuto’s texts, willfully ignoring his teacher’s pointed looks. Of course his grade would take a hit. It didn’t matter that Akaashi hadn’t slept in days attempting to perfectly capture the playful tilt of Bokuto’s chin, since he wasn’t suffering over it in class, the hours didn’t count.

“Hey, lover boy,” Kuroo said, using the affectionate nickname he’d so cleverly come up with after Bokuto accidently texted Kuroo instead of Akaashi. Akaashi glared at him, clicking the screen on his phone black, sure the intricate string of colored hearts on his phone wouldn’t dissuade this practice, “You haven’t forgotten tonight, right?”

Akaashi shook his head. He wouldn’t have been able to forget about game night if he tried, between Kuroo’s reminders in class and Bokuto’s all hours of the day. Not that he was in need of reminding, he’d actually had trouble getting to sleep the past few nights simply because his heart would palpitate whenever the thought of game night crept from the back of his head. He would toss and turn, getting tangled in the masses of his cool jersey sheets before finally giving up to work in his studio.

Which could possibly explain his overall irritability. He’d had a progress meeting this morning with his professor and could hardly respond with anything but grunts and half-hearted nods that may or may not have been him actually falling asleep. Three shots of espresso later, he was still unable to form coherent sentences but was, as intended, physically incapable of falling asleep walking down the street. 

He was also pretty sure he’d begun going slightly insane. He came across this revelation on his walk to class with Bokuto, when the taller man had been explaining to Akaashi why Beyonce was really truly the leader of the illuminati and it had made sense. Akaashi would never be able to listen to Single Ladies the same way again. He closed his eyes and tried to tune out Bokuto for his own sanity. His feet shuffled forward using the power of muscle memory to find their own way. A left turn here, a right down that street. Of course him relying on his mindless feet is what had him tripping over them not a moment later when a break in the sidewalk reached up to grab the toe of his oxfords.

He yelped in surprise and instinctively reached out his hands to stop his fall, a decision he knew he’d regret in the morning when he would have to abuse his scraped fingers by holding paintbrushes but before he could lament this too openly, a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the arms and twisted him around into a wall of person. A soft, muscled wall of person, wearing a nice cotton shirt. A person who smelled like, Akaashi burrowed his nose into the scent, trying to place the scent. It was almost like walking into a Cinnabon, but there was something even more welcoming about it. It almost smelled like home. Like cool fall nights spent getting warm by the fire and snuggling into his favorite blanket. Which was precisely what he was doing now, except his blanket was rumbling in time with Bokuto’s voice. Which was odd.

Why would a blanket rumble?

Akaashi backtracked, trying to make sense of this turn of events. He fell. He was caught. He was held and… Fuck. Akaashi’s eyes flew open and he took a couple swift steps back, nearly falling back into the street, meaning Bokuto once again had to reach out and catch him, this time only grabbing gently onto his wrist to help him catch his balance.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asked, his voice seasoned with concern.

Akaashi was very much  _ not _ okay, he thought as he stared straight ahead at Bokuto’s chest. The same exact chest he’s been  _ nuzzling _ in a sleep-deprived stupor. 

He forced himself to nod and continue walking forward, ahead of Bokuto and Kuroo as to hide his surely flushing cheeks. He cursed his light complexion and aversion to sunlight.

The rest of the walk was quiet, Akaashi could hear Bokuto walking silently behind him, just close enough to jump in and catch him again if he tried to fall. He could almost feel Bokuto’s concerned stare. He shivered, hoping to shake off the feeling. He fled into his building as soon as they arrived, muttering out a strangled goodbye in hopes of maintaining some semblance of normalcy in the mortifying reality he’d turned his life into.

He was on his computer searching the price for one-way plane tickets to Canada not five minutes into lecture when his phone buzzed on the pull out desk in front of him. The screen read: 

Still coming tonight?

from an unknown number, of course there was only one person it could be. He quickly typed out a response: 

Why wouldn’t I be?

before silencing his phone and closing his laptop, pulling out his notebook instead and running his fingers over the smooth, green cover. He thought of Bokuto’s shirt, a similar color, maybe a little more blue than green, but close enough to remind him of the soft material against his cheek. Of Bokuto’s warmth radiating through the fabric, heating Akaashi to the very core. Akaashi thought Kuroo should stop asking stupid questions he already knew the answer to. Like he had a choice. Akaashi had to go.

*****

Akaashi was already regretting his decision to go. It was approximately 30 degrees below the freezing point of oxygen, every breath seemed to chill him to the bone and the walk from his apartment to Bokuto and Kuroo’s was directly down the street residents had lovingly dubbed ‘the wind tunnel’ due to the 40 mile per hour gusts that buffeted any passerby unfortunate enough to not own a car and bowling over any students too small to handle the gales. He could’ve taken the side streets, but he felt more comfortable battling the winds than whatever drunk predators lurked in the alleys thinking they were going to make his night. He held his woolen gloves to his face and huffed a breath into them, using the muggy warmness of it to keep his exposed nose from giving up and scurrying to some dark corner to fend for itself.

It took him a total of 30 minutes to make it to his destination, he buzzed himself into the building and rechecked the apartment number on the address he’d received from both Bokuto and Kuroo, twice, and walked his way up the three flights of stairs (the elevator had a nice 8.5 by 11 inch piece of printer paper scotch-taped to it with a scrawled message stating it was ‘Out of Order, Please Don’t Use’) and around the corner to the right door. He could hear the muffled sounds of an argument mixed in with laugher, of all things, and braced himself for whatever was on the other side. He knocked twice, quick and quiet, half of him hoping no one would hear and he could have an excuse, but the world was not so kind to him.

The door swung in, the music that had previously been a dull bass echoing through the halls was immediately joined by the accompanying treble, the whining falsetto of some member of some 90s boy band Akaashi couldn’t place. Kuroo stood in front of Akaashi’s view of the apartment, his mischievous smirk curling a bit more grinch-like at the corners.

“Akaashi,” he purred, “Just in time.”

Akaashi very much did not like the sound of this. An arm snakes around Akaashi’s shoulders, ushering him into the 4-room apartment (2 bedrooms, a bathroom and a hybrid living room/kitchen) to find out exactly what he was just in time for. In front of him, crowded around a coffee table marred by condensation rings in front of a pretty impressive, sat a group of somewhat strapping young men. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto jumped up from the table so fast he banged his knee under it, jostling the many precariously balanced coaster-less cups. The rest of the table’s occupants seemed used to these outbursts however, and already had reached their hands out on reflex to catch anything in true danger of falling. 

Bokuto limped over to Akaashi, tears of pain pooling in the corner of one of his eyes, “You came!”

Akaashi rolled his eyes, “Of course I came.” How often did he have to say it before it would become true? Bokuto calmed a little after hearing the exasperation in Akaashi’s voice but he still practically vibrated with energy next to him.

Bokuto replaced Kuroo on his shoulder and cleared his throat, addressing the group at large, “Everyone, this is Akaashi,” he lowered his voice and turned his head, so his breath jostled the hair that cupped Akaashi’s hair, it tickled. “Akaashi, this is everyone.”

The first thing Akaashi noticed about them was how massive the group was, minus one average-sized skinny man with lank, straight badly-dyed hair. He was the only one not engaged in the quarrel in front of him, he simply observed, spying each one in turn from underneath his curtain of hair. Akaashi immediately recognized him from Kuroo’s paintings, but there was one stark difference. Kuroo’s painting showed a confident subject, who looked the observer in the face, analyzing them with deep, calculating yellow eyes. The actual man seemed more content to watch the world with his head down, engaged in anything other than social contact.

To his second left (Akaashi assumed the seat to his immediate left was reserved for Kuroo) was a man who was his opposite. He was  _ big _ , maybe not as tall or buff as Bokuto or the other man Akaashi had yet to analyze, but in every other sense. Everything about him begged to be the center of attention, from his wavy, styled locks to his winning smile. He interrupted his own conversation as soon as Akaashi was safely in the apartment to introduce himself. He stood, taller than Akaashi by two-three inches and held out a hand, “You must be the Akaashi Bokuto has been telling us so fondly about,” he said. His voice was high, bubbly and energetic, but Akaashi could sense something a little more playfully malevolent underneath. He didn’t seem like a bad person, necessarily, just that he had a lot to hide behind him pretty boy facade. Akaashi immediately liked him. Or was at least intrigued by him, “I’m Oikawa Tooru, pleased to meet you.”

He took Oikawa’s hand, even allowed himself engaged in a small power fight as they sized each other up, eyes locked. The decision was quick and final, they were no match for each other. Akaashi gave Oikawa his slyest smile, “Likewise, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa let Akaashi’s hand go and dragged his eyes over his body. His voice, when he spoke, was low and sultry. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Bo.”

Bokuto squawked, “Oikawa, don’t do your thing, I’ll tell Iwaizumi.”

Oikawa paled, visibly, all traces of the playful smile gone from his lips. It was only for a moment, then it returned, and he continued like nothing had happened, “You wouldn’t.”

“I will if you force my hand,” Bokuto stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, like he was preparing for an attack at any moment. 

But Oikawa was quick to back down, now. He sat back down at the table and crossed his arms, “I just wanted to make sure he was worthy.”

A broad, olive-skinned rather serious-looking guy waved a friendly hello to Akaashi, his warm chocolate brown eyes immediately making Akaashi feel welcome, before he returned to the papers in front of him. Oikawa sighed loudly in his general direction.

“Daichi, can you stop planning for half a second and have a little fun.?

Daichi (Akaashi assumed) shook his head, “I don’t have time for fun, Oikawa. I have an entire future to plan.”

“Oooooh can i be a part of your future, Daichan?”

Daichi riffled through the pages in front of him, pausing on a pink pull out tab, “You’re a part of scenario five.”

Oikawa scoffed, “Oh please, I’m scenario two material on a bad day.”

“Talk like that will get you bumped down to scenario seven.”

“It’s talk like this that got me into scenario five.”

Kuroo took a seat at the coffee table, in front of the cheese balls and dug a hand in, Akaashi made a mental note to stay away from the orange death traps. There was one space left around the table, by Bokuto (probably by no accident of his peers), so Akaashi took his cue and sat down in front of the couch, a little outside of the circle. He was still a little wary of bumping knees with them, he didn’t think people with multiple planned out scenarios for their future could be trusted. Daichi seemed nice enough, even a little level-headed, but really, what the hell. Akaashi grabbed a pretzel from one of the bowls, just for something to nibble on. He honestly didn’t even like pretzels, he believed there were far more effective ways of reaching his daily value of sodium, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Bokuto leaned back from his scooted up position under the table, he was just long enough for his head to rest comfortably on the couch cushion closest to him, so Akaashi was looking down at him. They were close. Close enough for Akaashi to see small flecks of bronze in Bokuto’s big, golden eyes, and the roots of his hair. Bokuto must have dyed it recently, it still smelled a bit like argan oil and something fruity, like the treatment his mother had always used after dying her own hair. His hair was a deep black, and it worked nicely into his greyscale hair. His lips were a little chapped, like he’d been worrying at it, nervously. If he just tilted his head down a little...

“Daichi’s trying to run the world’s most popular and fanciest hotel chain,” the lips said, effectively breaking Akaashi from his Bokuto-induced stupor, moments before he made an embarrassing decision.

“Not a chain, Bo. A singular entity that will bring in people from all over the world, just for the experience of staying at my hotel,” there was an ambitious light in Daichi’s eyes, like if he believed in the idea enough, he could make it happen. Akaashi usually wasn’t a big subscriber in the idea of wishing for something hard enough it actually happened, but the copious amounts of paper in front of him and diligent concentration he saw in Daichi made Akaashi actually believe too.

And it was clear his friends saw this too. For all the complaining and joking they were doing, there was a supportive edge to it. They were his knights of the round (or in this case slightly rectangular and short) table. Akaashi asked if he could look through some of the papers that had scurried down the table towards him and Daichi nodded, encouraging him to take a look.

Akaashi picked up a stack of three differently labeled stacks of paper. Each plan seemed to be ordered by both colored stick-on tabs and paper, and were detailed down to the day. There were years upon years planned out. The first one in his hand was a faded red and titled, “College Track,” and had a large, purple ‘X’ marked through it, scribbled text next to it in the same color stating the plan was ‘not plausible”.

The next few plans he riffled through were marked with similar comments, the first he found that wasn’t was a bright highlighter yellow that actually burned his retinas. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust so he could read the title without squinting. The writing was bold and read, “Bo’s Significant Other”. Akaashi paged through it a little, the paper was still stiff and new like money fresh off the press, and it still smelled faintly of printer ink. The plan was smaller than the others by about a fourth, Daichi apparently assumed whoever Bokuto’s future partner was would be a large contributing factor in all of their futures. Akaashi skimmed it a little more before holding it up for everyone to see.

“Hey Daichi, what’s up with this one?” he said.

Daichi looked up from where he was struggling against Oikawa to cross something out in scenario five with a large, red permanent marker, “Hm? Oh, that’s for when Bo finally finds “the one” he’s been talking about since Kuroo made the mistake of calling him Trinity from The Matrix.”

Akaashi didn’t see how in any way, shape or form Bokuto was like Trinity from The Matrix but if it furthered the plot, hey, who really cared anyway.

Bokuto had tears in his eyes. “You believed in me?”

Daichi shrugged. “You were bound to wear someone down eventually,”  he said.

Kuroo picked up the remaining plans scattered about the table and piled them neatly in a stack, away from Bokuto, who was trying to tackle Daichi from across the table. He leafed through the pages, a small frown on his face. “Daichi, where’s the one for your significant other?”

“I don’t have time to give someone the emotional attention they deserve,” Daichi said.

Oikawa gasped, audible and theatrical, “But Daichan, what if you die?” he grabbed the handful of plans from Kuroo and waved them in Daichi’s face. “Who will carry on your legacy?”

Daichi’s brow furrowed, as if Oikawa had just asked him why the world was round. “But,” he said, “I can’t die? It’s not in the plan?”

Everyone got very quiet and still, until Oikawa placed a hand gently on Daichi’s shoulder, “Honey, I’m worried about you, I think you may need help.”

Daichi’s expression went from dumb-founded to terrified faster than a Ferrari’s zero to sixty, “Oh my god, what if I die?”

Daichi scrambled to collect all of his plans again and began crossing things out and writing like a madman. Kuroo fixed Oikawa with a particularly evil glare. “God damn it Oikawa, look you gave him anxiety.”

The rest of the night continued in a similar fashion. They played cards, drank whatever cocktails Kuroo was in the mood for making and comforted Daichi. Oikawa, with his comments to Daichi, had volunteered himself as the night’s scapegoat. Everything that went wrong was undoubtedly his fault, if he won, he was cheating, and if he lost, it was because everyone had made it their goal for him to suffer. Eventually they tired of the available entertainments and settled for talking around the table. A lot of the questions were directed at Akaashi at first, and he answered them to the best of his ability. Name, age and major were the most obvious, and the interrogation only ended after they’d found his marital status and ideal type, which he himself wasn’t even sure of by the end of it. Oikawa was a master of the Socratic Method.

As they always seemed to, the conversation between college students turned to complaints about academics. A majority of the participants, which at that point had boiled down to Bokuto, Kuroo and Akaashi, were liberal arts majors, so the most logical subject to hate on was any form of mathematics.

Bokuto groaned. “God, I hate math so much. My brain just won’t learn it, it drives me bat shit crazy.”

“Or,” Kuroo said, “Owl-shit crazy.” At some point during the night Bokuto had gone on a tangent about owl-related humor and the lack of any good owl puns in the world.

Bokuto glared at Kuroo, “That wasn’t even a pun it was just stupid.”

“Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.”

“No see that’s wrong too, there is only one way to pronounce tomato ask the dictionary, you poop.”

Kuroo grinned, snake-like, Akaashi had seen that look enough in art class to know he should probably intervene before he ignited the ticking time bomb of Bokuto.

“Hey Bokuto.” Akaashi leaned in to the older boy, he knew he was close and considered how much he’d drank throughout the night. Probably a little more than initially anticipated. His heart swooped a little with every movement. “I can help you with math, I’m like, crazy good with numbers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I got yours didn’t I?” Akaashi shook his head, there was no way in hell he’d just said that.

Bokuto grinned, “Actually I think you got that wrong, because I definitely remember being the one who got the number.”

Akaashi was about to tell Bokuto that it would be impossible for him to get his own number but he remembered there were more pressing matters at hand, “Okay, but really. Math. I can teach you.”

“Aren’t you an art major?” Kuroo asked from the other side.

Akaashi whipped around, he was used to defending himself on this point, if he could do it sober, there was no doubt he could get the job done drunk, “Art is all proportions. Math is art, in its own way, just more formulaic.”

“Then why don’t you come by tomorrow? I know Bokuto’s free.”

“Sure, but he should come to my place, it’s a much more conducive environment to learning.” Akaashi made plans with Kuroo for his and Bokuto’s first study session while Bokuto grumbled about being a grown man able of handling his own schedule. He was largely ignored, all though Akaashi did find himself leaning on Bokuto’s shoulder halfway through the conversation, and that seemed to quiet him. His shoulder was hard, but rounded and provided a perfect pillow for Akaashi to tuck himself into. It didn’t take long for him to doze off and what felt like only moments later, he was being shook awake, gentle as a summer breeze.

Bokuto’s voice was almost impossibly noiseless as he said, “Hey Akaashi, can I take you home?”

Akaashi yawned and kept his eyes closed, “Naw, I can walk.” His words were slurred, from grogginess instead of inebriation, he’d sobered up considerably. “What time is it?”

“4 AM.” Bokuto said, “It would make me feel a lot better if I could walk you, or you could stay out on the couch tonight, I’m sure Daichi wouldn’t mind since he’s already sleeping with Kenma in Kuroo’s bed.”

Akaashi didn’t want to impose, and he didn’t actually know these people all that well, but he wasn’t really sure he’d be able to make the walk all the way back and if there was an empty couch, it would be almost  a shame not to take it.

Bokuto took his silence as a yes and set to making up a bed on the couch and helping Akaashi up into it. AKaashi kept his eyes closed and Bokuto pulled a warm quilt up to his chin, “Goodnight, Akaashi,” he whispered.

Akaashi hummed in response, already being coaxed back to sleep by the warmth of his blanket and Bokuto’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave comments or kudos, whichever you deem acceptable!

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [ tumblr! ](http://hamahsauwus.tumblr.com/)  
> Please comment and leave kudos hope you like it!


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